The Puppet Master
by Vanillasiren
Summary: There are times when Esmeralda wonders if Clopin is more than he seems. One-shot for now.


The Puppet Master

Summary: There are times when Esmeralda wonders if Clopin is more than he seems. One-shot for now.

Author's Note: Why yes, I _am _currently obsessed with '90s Disney cartoons (both movies and series), thanks for noticing!

"What is it you want to know, _mon __chère_?"

He'll respond that way sometimes, often when she hasn't even asked a question, hasn't said anything at all, merely glanced at him with that expression he always seems to recognize, the look she gets when she's trying to puzzle him out. She can't quite understand why the King of Gypsies is still such a mystery to her, even now; after all, if anyone could to claim to know Clopin Trouillefou, it should be her.

She can't even remember a time when he'd been anything less than a constant presence in her life, and after her parents had died when she was six, he'd pretty much raised her, acting like a father and brother rolled into one. He made her laugh, he kept her safe, and he taught her how to survive with her looks and her wits. He was her family. He was familiar.

And yet, at the same time, there was something about him that remained inscrutable.

Try as she might, she can never quite put her finger on it. It's not that she is unaware of his dark side – far from it. She had been there when he was about to hang Quasimodo and Phoebus. She had seen his glee as he cavorted about the Court of Miracles, more than willing to end their lives in order to protect his people. He had no qualms about doing his own dirty work when it came to such things; indeed, she knew he relished the spectacle of it all. Although not a naturally cruel or vengeful man, Clopin, for all his cheerfulness and pageantry, was dangerous when crossed. It didn't frighten her that he was willing to spill blood if he had to; when it came right down to it, she was the same. They'd both go to great lengths to protect those who mattered.

No, it was something else about him. Maybe it was the way he sometimes seemed to know more than he should, spinning the tale of Quasimodo's life like he'd been there to see it all, even the events she knew he couldn't possibly have witnessed, or even heard about. Maybe it was the way he was everywhere at once, moving faster than even the most light-footed and stealthy of their people, seeming to appear whenever and wherever there was a need or a desire for his presence.

At times, it almost seemed to her as if he was literally pulling on everyone's strings, manipulating them all like one of his puppets, fancifully but never maliciously, playing on their wants and wishes, making their hopes and dreams come true in completely unexpected ways.

Some days, she felt like she could summon him with a mere thought.

Occasionally, she'd call him out on these tendencies, and he'd just smile, and tip his hat to her, and say something glib. He'd say she hadn't been paying enough attention; he'd profess his disappointment that she hadn't learned their Gypsy tricks as well as he'd hoped, not if she couldn't figure it out. Other times he would simply claim it was his right as the King to be a little smarter and faster than the rest of them.

When she pressed the issue, which was rare, he'd never get upset. He'd simply laugh and tell her that an unsolved mystery was one of the last true wonders of life that remained from one's childhood, and did she really want him to spoil it by giving his secrets away?

"So you_ do_ have secrets then," Esmeralda would say.

And he'd wink at her. "Ah, _ma belle_, don't we all?" And they would laugh, and then he would be gone, finding some amusement, hatching some plan, making some mischief or another. And she would shake off the feeling that she was missing something, and get on with the business of living.

But even now, when her life is a little less wild, a little less colorful, when she is happily settling into her marriage with Phoebus and thinking about how much she hopes to be a mother soon, she will still find herself occasionally mulling over the mystery that is Clopin.

In most ways, he seems the same as he's always been, ever since she was a little girl. True, she supposes he's grown older, just like the rest of them; his hair's a little thinner, at least. But he's still got his manic energy and his quicksilver moods, and he still moves with a grace and agility that a man of half his age would envy.

At least, that's what she assumes, because she's not sure how old he is; he'll never give her a straight answer when she asks, telling her only, with a little chuckle, that he is ever a child at heart.

There are times though, if he's been drinking enough and she catches him in the right humor, that he will say something else, something impossible and appropriately cryptic: he will say that he is older than she can ever imagine. He might even say other things, his words growing more ridiculous as he continues. For instance, he will say he dances to a music none of them can hear. He will say he can't be tamed, that he can't be controlled. He will say it's a good game, a fun game, a wonderful game, and he will miss them all when he's dealt his last hand; but he won't mind all that much, because there are always other games for him to play.

She'll listen to this talk silently, both amused and vaguely unsettled, and if she brings it up the next day, he will pinch her cheek affectionately, and remind her that she must pay no mind to his foolish talk when he is drunk. She'll let it go, as she always does, but then she'll watch him, watch how he interacts with those around him, looking for some clue that will unravel the riddle of his words.

He certainly doesn't hold himself aloof, from the other Gypsies or anyone else. And when it comes to women, he flirts shamelessly with pretty much anything in a skirt. From the most bashful of the young ladies to the most cantankerous of the old matrons, he makes them all blush and giggle with his irrepressible charm.

She is the only exception to this. He is fully aware of her effect on men, and before she became "a sadly respectable married lady" as he puts it, he was more than willing to have her use her teasing dances to earn them some extra coins. But he himself has never treated her as anything more than a beloved sister.

And yet, for all his flirtations with every girl but her, she has never seen him actually romance a woman. She supposes it's possible that he's simply been discreet about any dalliances that he's had over the years, but still, sometimes she wishes that he would meet someone special, get serious about a girl for once. Maybe then she could finally shake this feeling that there was something about him she'd never understand, because he would be like everyone else.

More importantly, she wants to see him happy, because for all his cheerfulness, she detects a certain wistfulness about him, a sadness that occasionally seeps out despite all his merriment.

Most of the time, he will deny it if she points it out. He will only smile brighter, laugh louder, do something so unbelievably silly that she'll dissolve into a fit of giggles and forget about it until the next time.

But sometimes, very rarely, when she asks him why he seems a little melancholy, instead of contradicting and distracting her with his antics, he will tell her that he misses home.

It is a strange answer for a Gypsy to give, she knows. For although she has settled herself in Paris and become the exception to it, the rule generally is that they are a perpetually wandering people. When she asks where home is, he will say nothing. He will just smile and shake his head, perhaps clasping her hand in his, or stroking her cheek paternally.

Then she'll ask him when he's going to settle down with some nice girl and start a family. And his eyes will light up, and he will laugh long and loud, and say he moves far too quickly to be hit by Cupid's arrow, thank goodness!

"Come now , can you really picture me as a husband? Pity my poor wife!" And indeed, the idea of Clopin married seems absurd. But at the same time, she can so easily see him as a father. He is wonderful with children; they delight in his performances with the puppets, and he is always patient and kind with the little ones, even when they are trying the last nerves of their own parents.

Once, just once, she'd asked him if he'd ever been in love, and his answer surprised her. At first, he'd simply scoffed and told her no. A moment later, he'd claimed to have been in love many times. He said he'd loved every girl from here to Spain, and that they'd all loved him, and how could he confine himself to one woman when there were so many pretty ladies needing some excitement in their lives?

At that point, she'd just rolled her eyes and dropped it. It wasn't until several hours and many drinks later, when she'd forgotten even bringing it up in the first place, that he muttered something which caught her attention.

"What was that?" She asked, still sharp despite being a little tipsy. He'd had considerably more to drink than her, which was usually the way of things.

"A little siren, she was," Clopin repeated, a strange look on his face.

Intrigued, Esmeralda titled her head at him. "And she had your heart?"

"Ah, _mon_ _chère_, she still does. She always will."

She'd never heard him talk like that before, and she never did again. She supposed she could have pursued the matter, could have asked him more questions, but something told her to let it be. Something told her to let it go.

The King of Gypsies is her friend, her brother, her father, and her protector. This man that raised her and taught her is very dear to her heart, even for all those aspects of him that still remain a mystery. She knows Clopin as well as anyone can claim to, and she supposes that will have to be enough. Perhaps someday, she will be able to understand, to explain that … _otherness _she sometimes feels emanating from him.

Or at the very least, she hopes she will be able reconcile herself to never unraveling the mystery. In the meantime, she will watch him do his tricks and play his games, and she will hope this unknowable man is happy enough among them, happy until the day his wild music leads him to whatever place he considers his home. She will listen to his tales, no matter how ridiculous or impossible, and she will laugh and shake her head.

"Clopin, of all the stories you've told me over the years, which ones were true?"

"_Ma belle_! Why, they're all true, but of course!"

"Even the lies?"

His smile is as brilliant as it is enigmatic. "Especially the lies."


End file.
